


Without Any Explanation

by szszsz



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/szszsz/pseuds/szszsz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just as plausible as some other theories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Any Explanation

 “I'm sorry, sorry again” Sherlock repeats and it occurs to him that he's probably never going to stop apologizing to John. But still, it's a small price for being able to see him again. He could say sorry for that every day.

 

* * *

 

Later, when all seems quite good between them again and they're about to leave, John finally asks.

"Sherlock, you are going to tell me how you did it?” John's face is serious, his gaze focused on him. "How you jumped off that building and survived?”

Sherlock laughs, saying something stupid about his methods and being indestructible and all and John drops it. He forgave him, he said so. Yet he looks somewhat disappointed deep down, but it's not like Sherlock doesn't _want_ to tell him, it's just he really doesn't know. Faking his own death would probably be easier than explaining what really happened. Because how do you tell your best friend that you were actually, properly _dead_?

 

* * *

 

He remembers the fall. The speeding of the air, the feeling of terror, how it felt to hit the ground. It didn't really hurt. Well it did, but it killed him so quickly, it didn't matter. A split of a second just before he touched the pavement, he was at peace; his thoughts calm, his body almost relaxed. Like he accepted the inevitable, embraced the death.

_Don't be afraid, falling is just like flying._

And then came the darkness.

You know, the last sense to go off when you're dying is your hearing. You lose vision and mobility first, but your brain still registers some sounds. So he picked up John's voice saying “let me through... he's my friend”, but he couldn't see his face. Though, he can easily imagine the whole scene; the shock, the mob, his own blood splashed all over, dark, dark red. The picture is now quite clear in his head, but the moment it happened, he didn't know his own name or any other thing.

Then there was absolutely nothing. It's hard to explain how nothing felt; but right after that came a sensation similar to waking up, except he was sure he didn't dream of anything. He remembers feeling hallow. He knew that he was cold, very cold and that his heavy body was lying there in the ground, slowly beginning to decay. His eyes were closed, unseeing, empty. And yet he _saw_ , he saw John standing on his grave. John shaking almost imperceptibly while touching the gravestone. John asking for one more miracle.

_Don't. Be. Dead._

He watched John leaving.

And he knew he had to do something to stop him, he needed to touch him, hold him. Suddenly Sherlock understood that everything was about John, form the very beginning, about this man, simple and loyal John, stupid John, brave John with his gentle smile and...

Maybe that's what he was waiting for, something he needed, like a spell or a call. Maybe it really was that simple.

It happened really fast. Memories going faster than the light through his mind, and he felt like suffocating, like screaming in pain, like dying all over again, until he took a loud deep breath in and he was back. He was alive again. All in one piece, not in his coffin, but some place he didn't recognise, all alone. He was lying down, trying to learn anew the names of colours, nouns and how to count. He later found out that he was in Serbia at that time, but he has no clue how he got there. He stayed in Eastern Europe for sometime, trying to figure it out. He told Mycroft, of course. His brother was shocked, naturally, but also... kind of relieved? Maybe he _did_ worried about him, after all. Together they agreed to conceal the truth. The idea was to tell the others that his death was a fake. But, honestly, Sherlock wouldn't tell anyone else something he didn't truly understand himself. They did try to find an explanation, any explanation at all, but they had to give up after months of fruitless research. It seemed ridiculous to think that he was brought up to life by some mystical, supernatural force. Mycroft said once, trying to sound as annoyed as always (and completely failing at it), that Sherlock was probably just too stubborn to pass away peacefully. Sherlock knew it took more than his dreadful character to bring him back. But that wasn't important. The real question wasn't _how_ or _why_ , but _what for_. Whether it was a test, a new quest or a case, he saw a second chance. And he was decided to take it.

 

* * *

 

 “When you were dead, I went to your grave,” says John after a while, “I made a little speech. I actually spoke to you.”

“I know. I was there.” Sherlock interrupts, not daring to meet his friend's eye.

“I asked you for one more miracle” John continues, clearly determined to throw it all out at once, “I asked you to stop being dead.”

Sherlock smiles sadly and answers, “I heard you.”

 


End file.
